


The Angel of Death

by JustNeededAUsername



Series: The Case File of Minor Tales [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer but nothing supernatural - It is not as weird as it might sound, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustNeededAUsername/pseuds/JustNeededAUsername
Summary: A couple of one shots with minor cases for the Baker Street Boys inspired by a mixture of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the cruel reality of crime that we sometimes face. Nothing supernatural, the BTVS episodes just got my imagination going. No knowledge of the episodes needed.
Series: The Case File of Minor Tales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878043
Kudos: 2





	The Angel of Death

**Author's Note:**

> I am hoping to make this a couple of one shots with minor cases for the Baker Street Boys inspired by a mixture of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the cruel reality of crime that we sometimes face (Or maybe I've just watched too much Criminal Minds...). Nothing supernatural, the BTVS episodes just got my imagination going. No knowledge of the episodes needed. (But if you for whatever reason have not watched Buffy, you really should, epic show!)
> 
> Don't know if I how many I will make. It will depend on the mercy of the muses, so I have marked the story as Complete. However, if inspiration strikes, I will add more (Especially since it turns out to be a lot easier to kindly lend a plot instead of having to make one up :P)
> 
> I was a bit uncertain about the rating for this one, as it took a bit of a darker turn during the writing than expected, but nothing too explicit I think, so I kept it T.
> 
> Please enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. of course I do not own Sherlock. If I did, we would not be waiting this damn long for a fifth season!

It was a dreadful time of year. Despite the injection of jolliness and warmth during Christmas, Winter was always the worse time of year. For many reasons. The cold, the rain that only rarely turned into snow, the short days, the wind – Basically the weather was awful. And it made old wounds act up.

Add to that the increase of patients in the clinic, and the monotony in the symptoms and diseases they were bringing – And that was really the worst part of it, they kept bringing the disease to the clinic instead of just staying home in bed. Didn't matter if it was the cold or the flu – and it mostly was one of the two – it was the same advice; _Don't worry, go home, have some tea, stay in bed, stay hydrated, if it has not gotten any better by Monday, give us a call_. And please, call first instead of just showing up and sneezing on everyone.

It was a natural part of being a doctor, and thus something you learned to live with. People worried, especially about their children and elders who were more vulnerable and where the normally harmless diseases could turn harmful.

But for an ex-army doctor with a minor adrenaline addiction, it could be difficult to sit all day and smile reassuringly, when you secretly hoped for a consulting detective to start barraging his phone with texts of a new case. After a day in the clinic, he would almost pray for a broken leg to walk into his office – yes, he was very much aware of the irony of that sentence – just something more interesting than the damn flu!

But this year, God, he missed the normal flu. Or someone with a cold. Or just the sniffles.

This year, a particularly malicious string of flu was going around. Fast. It caused abnormally high and long-lasting fever, leading to dehydration, enfeeblement, delirium and worse.

The clinic was flooded with patients and they were all the same. Ill and scared.

For once, the flu provided plenty of adrenaline, simply because of the rush of the work and medical decisions beyond "Stay in bed".

It was the fourth day in a row where John had worked a double shift. He did little else than sleep and work these days. Luckily, and quite amazingly, even Sherlock seemed to understand the importance of treating the ill for once, so he had not asked John to join him on any cases and even downplayed how interesting they were. They were no where near some of their past cases, but God, please, let the weather turn better soon and help knock down this disease. He missed the nightly hunts with the detective.

"Ready to leave?" Sarah's tired voice sounded from the door.

Demonstratively hitting the enter-key on his keyboard, John leaned back in his chair and looked up with a small smile; "Now I am."

"Good. See you tomorrow!" Sarah waved before leaving the doorway.

John turned the computer off and stood up but swayed when hit with a dizzy spell. He shook his head, shaking away the little black spots from his vision. Probably just stood up too fast.

-.-.-.-

The truth hit him the moment he reached the staircase. It really only was 17 steps, so he shouldn't be breathing this heavily, and when he reached the top, he actually had to stop and clear his airways.

"Oh God, no," He sighed when catching his breath. He ran a hand down his face, noticing that it was slightly hotter than normally.

It was not much of a surprise that he would get ill. He was in a vulnerable position as a doctor, but he thought that he had been very careful. However, he could as easily have caught it from passing someone on the street as from someone at the clinic.

"John?" The door to 221B swung open.

Apparently, John had taken long enough on the landing for Sherlock to wonder why he didn't enter. A quick glance from the detective confirmed John's own suspicions, as he looked slightly taken back by John's appearance. He must already look awful.

"Stand back, Sherlock. No reason for both of us to become ill," John gave a small smile despite feeling worse for each second. He knew the flu was aggressive, but it truly hit harder and faster than he had imagined.

"Of course," Sherlock stood in the door, hands clenching and unclenching anxiously and his eyes not quite meeting John's, almost searching for something, "Well, uhm…"

For a second, John wondered if Sherlock was a bit of a germophobe but quickly dismissed it when thinking of the state of their refrigerator. Then he realised that Sherlock was probably not used to dealing with ill people. He couldn't quite imagine Sherlock holding a cold cloth to Mycroft's head during their youth.

"I'll just let Sarah know I won't be in tomorrow and then hit the bed," John said reassuringly before attacking the next flight of stairs.

"Yes," Sherlock seemed relieved that John had not asked anything of him, before adding, almost as an afterthought; "Feel better."

John wanted to say thanks, but he needed his oxygen for walking right now.

-.-.-.-

John was ill.

Sherlock could hear him coughing from upstairs. He rarely noticed sounds from John's room, but the sound of John's difficult breathing seemed to penetrate both the building's walls and Sherlock's mental ones.

He couldn't concentrate.

He paced the living room, looking to the ceiling at the smallest sound from upstairs.

Logic demanded that he did as John had said and stayed as far away from John as possible until he felt better, but for an, to Sherlock, unknown reason, his mind started looking through his catalogue of social conventions.

How should one react when faced with an ill friend? Nothing. He had never faced this issue, never needed it for a case, never had a friend to care about before.

How had others reacted to him being ill? His mother had made him chicken soup, made sure he had plenty of liquids, stroked his hair, kissed him on the forehead.

When was the last time Sherlock was ill? He couldn't remember. Probably deleted it. Laying home in bed was hardly worth saving on his hard drive. Yet, glimpses of John yelling at him to stay in bed – _"If you try to run out on this case again, I swear I will shoot you in the legs! Now stay in bed!"_ – and bringing him water and leftovers appeared in his mind.

But John was not a child. Nor an inept ill detective. And he was not an average grown-up either. He was a doctor. He would eat when he wanted and could, he knew the importance of keeping hydrated. He would let Sherlock know if he really needed help. And he would stay in bed as long as he needed to, instead of running along on the next case. Well, that last part might be debatable.

A large bump from upstairs once again drew his attention. And then scrambling around. _What is he doing up there?_

Sherlock gave in to curiosity and went upstairs. When he opened the door to John's bedroom, he was surprised when the door hit a chair, knocked over on the carpet.

The chair was however quickly forgotten when a loud bang echoed in the small room and a bullet perforated the wall next to the door. Sherlock quickly withdrew from the door but called out; "John!"

He was only met by the sound of heavy breathing.

"John, what is going on?" Sherlock called again.

A moment passed before a small, almost wheeze answered; "Sherlock?"

Sherlock carefully stepped towards the door, opening it fully before stepping into the doorway. No new bullets flew at him, so he dared stepping into the room.

The bedside lamp was on, revealing a rumpled bed and a bedside table with the classic indicators of illness; water, paracetamol – _Two tablets missing_ –, thermometer.

Next to the bed, John was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. He was covered by a light sheen of sweat, his skin having a red tinge from the fever. For a second, he didn't seem to recognize Sherlock, but then he smiled; "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked carefully.

"You never served. You were never here," John ended the few sentences with a cough.

"John. We are home, at Baker Street."

John squinted at him in confusion. Then he looked around, as if noticing his room for the first time; "Oh yeah…"

Sherlock kneeled in front of John, carefully laying the back of his hand against the doctor's forehead. John didn't move, as he seemed to be searching the room for invisible enemies. Sherlock's hand felt like ice in comparison to the heat radiating from the doctor; "You're burning up."

"I-… I took some pills to knock it down…" John sounded out of breath and still dazed by the fever, "What are you doing up here? Told you to stay clear."

"You were making quite the fuss up here," Sherlock sat down on the floor, just keeping the doctor talking.

"I'm just laying here in bed," John frowned.

"On the floor?"

John looked down, but instead of noticing the floor, his eyes fell on his left hand. John didn't seem to remember his own actions; "Oh God..."

"It's alright. Just give that to me know," Sherlock reached out with an open hand.

John slowly handed over the gun. The moment it left his hands, and Sherlock started removing the magazine, he ran his hands over his face and hair, trying to push away the scolding fever.

"It's lucky you are such a bad shot when ill," Sherlock carefully joked.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock…" John coughed again. After a moment he gave a small, defeated laugh hidden in a weak smile, making Sherlock look worriedly at him; "Sherlock, I think I need a doctor."

-.-.-.-

The efficiency of the hospitalisation only added to the seriousness of the epidemic. As soon as the doctor had checked John's temperature, they had decided to keep him for the night to help knock down his fever.

John had, of course, been against the idea at first, but it was difficult to argue against another doctor, who was telling him all the things he already knew, and that all the things he would have said to any other patient in his place.

During the entire process, Sherlock had been fidgeting, seeming unusually nervous. He had let John get dressed by himself but had helped him down the stairs and into the cab. The doctor was shaking from the cold, made even more pronounced by his own unnaturally high body temperature. In the hospital, he didn't deduce anyone out loud or comment on the practice of the hospital staff, which John, even in his poor state, noticed and found unnerving. He had kept helping John and had calmly relayed the facts as he knew them.

None of them had mentioned the episode with the gun, only that he had been incoherent and delirious. It was, however, the last straw that made John agree to stay in the hospital for one night. He had been incredibly close to hurting Sherlock, and that was completely unacceptable. He did not trust himself around him until the fever was under control.

The hospital had tried to isolate the flu patients in a particular wing, and tried to divide the patients more or less into age groups, but due to the late night and overcrowding of the wing, John was placed in a ward with five older children, probably about the age of 10-14. The nurse promised that they would move him the next day to a ward with other grown-ups if he had to stay for more than one night.

John didn't mind. He liked children, and he was only planning on staying for that one night, where he would hopefully sleep most of the time.

In order not to cause too much commotion in the ward, Sherlock was asked to say his goodbyes before John entered. It was not until this moment – Maybe because John had finally been given something a bit more efficient than paracetamol against his fever – that John realised that Sherlock had been acting strange because he was worried. About John. John knew, on some level, that the detective cared for him as a friend and a partner in anti-crime, but Sherlock rarely showed it. Now, however, it was clear that Sherlock did not want to leave John alone in his weakened state.

John was tired and due to the incident earlier, felt safer with Sherlock at a distance; "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm just going to get some sleep, hopefully."

"I know," The detective answered, but didn't make any move to leave and almost seemed lost in thought, staring blankly at John's chest.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"I'm tired. The sooner you leave, the quicker I can get to bed," John send him a pointed look.

"Oh… Right…" Sherlock rolled on his feet, still seeming to contemplate the situation.

"Don't make me kick you out," John couldn't help a small smile.

Sherlock finally seemed to snap out of his thoughts, smiling back, apparently reassured by the small gesture from John; "Fine. Goodnight."

"Goodnight Sherlock," John turned to the nurse who was waiting by the door to the ward for the night, determinately not looking back at Sherlock.

They entered the ward as quietly as possible, and John was shown to a bed to the right, closest to the window. Despite his silent movements as he settled down in the bed, the boy next to him arose from his sleep.

"Hi," The boy whispered.

"Hello," John answered tiredly.

"What's your name?" He boy asked. He was pale and his eyes glazed, but still had that lovely childish curiosity.

"I'm John. And you?"

"Ryan."

"Nice to meet you, Ryan."

"You sick too?"

John couldn't help Sherlock's voice whispering in his head; _Obviously_. Instead he answered; "Yes, but just the flu."

"Me too."

_Obviously_.

"Well, we will both be better soon," John smiled, feeling his eyes becoming heavy.

"You think so?"

"Yes. And you can trust me on that, cause I'm a doctor. I know what I'm talking about."

The boy was quiet for a moment, and John finally thought he could get some sleep.

"But Death took Tyler…"

John almost didn't hear him, his hearing being muffled by sleep and medication, but after a moment the word registered, and John fought his eyes open again; "Wha…?"

"Death was here… took Tyler…" The whisper was almost inaudible, falling back under from the medication himself.

Poor kid. Even something as simple as the flu had victims, especially among children and the elderly. Maybe Ryan was religious or maybe thinking of death as a person made it easier to understand in a young age.

"Listen. Nothing is going to happen. Like I said, I'm a doctor. But I've also been a soldier," John tried to sound confident, despite feeling completely drained, "No matter what, I will keep you safe. I promise."

"You promise?"

_Oh please, God, don't let this be a promise I can't keep_ ; "I Promise."

-.-.-.-

_John was running. It was so warm. The sun was burning down on him. But he had to keep running._

_But he couldn't._

_The sand was grabbing at his shoes, sucking his feet in._

_He fell to his knees, tried pulling himself to his feet again, but he only had the sand to grab onto, and it was slipping through his hands._

_The sand kept dragging him further in._

_He was drowning in sand, and it was screeching in his ears._

John threw himself to the other side of the bed and woke up startled. His breath was ragged and heavy. But he was no longer drowning. The air was cool and fresh, but he was still burning. He didn't know for how long he had slept, but the medicine must already be wearing off. He must really have it bad.

He looked around the dark room, the unfamiliar shadows, unmoving. Except for one.

The bed across from him, a black shadow moving around the bed in the pale light seeping through the curtains.

John raised himself on his elbows, feeling them shake underneath his weight, the damaged muscles behind the scar in his left shoulder aching just a bit more than the rest of his body.

The shadow leaned over the bed, over the boy, the darkness flowing around it. Like a cape. Like Death.

_Not possible._

Keep it together, Watson, keep it together.

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to shake the image out of his head.

But the figure was still there, a little less blurry, but still there. And it seemed to be studying the saline solution bag. No, the shadow was… fiddling with it?

"Hey…" John called weakly.

The shadow turned towards him, with a… syringe?

"What are yo-" John was cut off by himself, when his left arm gave in and he was closer to the edge of the bed than calculated. He dropped to the floor, his vision tumbling around him. He hit the floor unexpected and hard.

It took him long to reorient himself, so by the time he tuned towards the figure again, it was gone. For a moment, he just laid there, watching the darkness, waiting for the shadow to reappear. But it was gone.

John slowly sat up, suddenly unsure about what he had seen, if he had seen anything.

Everything was quiet, except for a few squeaking breaths from flu-infected lungs.

Bloody hell, this was a hospital. It was safe. Despite being night, there would still be personnel in the halls.

_It was nothing. Just this bloody fever._

John crawled back to bed, and despite the suffocating heat, he drifted off again.

-.-.-.-

Next time John woke up, it was to shuffling and intense whispering.

At first, he didn't want to open his eyes, still tired and drained. But he couldn't ignore the sounds, especially when the implications by the words started flowing into his brain.

"…Move him…"

"Where?!... Full…"

_Bad._

He opened his eyes, and for a moment he couldn't help but to register that he was feeling better. Colder. Clearer. Judging by the light, it must be early morning.

"Call his parents…" The voice of a nurse reached his head.

John looked at the bed across from his, but the nurses were quickly covering the bed behind portable curtains.

_Very bad._

He lifted himself up on his elbows, happy to feel his muscles less aching than what he remembered from last night. The nurse noticed his movements and turned to him. She quickly smiled, but he recognised the look on her face before her mask fell into place.

"Dr Watson, how are you feeling?"

"What happened?" John ignored the question.

The nurse looked back at the curtain and then around on the surrounding beds. John followed her eyes, looking around at the curious children's eyes looking back. He looked down; "I'm feeling much better, thank you."

The nurse smiled understandingly, and gratefully; "You do look better. The doctor will be right back to check up on you, all of you. I'll get someone to bring breakfast."

The nurse left swiftly, one last glance towards the curtains.

"It was Death," Ryan whispered next to him, drawing John's attention, "Did you see it?"

"I-," John was going to answer, reassure the boy, but Ryan cut him off.

"You saw it. When you fell out of bed. Please say you saw it. They won't believe us. But if you saw the hooded man. Death."

"You've seen him too?" John asked before he could stop himself, finding it reassuring that he might not be seeing things. Finding it chillingly disturbing that he might not be seeing things.

The boy just nodded. Scared.

They both had severe fever, why else would they be here, but two people having the same delusion was rare, and non-existing among complete strangers. So maybe, it wasn't a delusion.

With sudden determination and a rush of adrenaline, John threw the duvet to the side and walked determinately to the curtain. A quick glance back at the boys to make sure no one was following, but they all just looked away frightened. Something had truly terrified these boys.

He opened the curtain as little as possible to shield the boys from the view.

On the other side laid a young boy, maybe 12 or 13 years old. John quickly shielded himself, as any doctor had learned, compartmentalising. He looked over the boy's face, but only found him looking peaceful.

He instead looked at the saline solution bag. Looked normal as well. Except… By the IV, a smudge of white lined the edge.

Before John could think more of it, the nurse removed the curtain, a porter standing behind her to take the bed away.

First, the nurse looked shocked, then angry as she bit out; "Dr Watson, get back to your bed, please."

John realised that his time was short, as the nurse stepped forward to guide him away; "You need to check the IV, there's something there, the white-"

"Dr Watson, please, let us do our job. I'm sure you can appreciate the delicate situation," The nurse pushed him harder.

John would normally have fought more, but his strength was quickly leaving him. He was guided back to sit on his bed, and all he could do was watch the nurse and porter make the poor kid ready to be moved to another room, probably an empty room where his family could say their goodbyes, until another nurse covered his view with another portable curtain.

-.-.-.-

Sherlock had been pacing all morning. He never doubted himself, yet he had spent all night debating A) The appropriate time to go see John again, and B) Why it mattered so much to see John again so soon. John was in the hospital, receiving the proper care for his illness. He needed rest and sleep and Sherlock showing up at five in the morning would be very counterproductive to that. But he wanted to know, to see, needed to… to what? He had already concluded that he knew nothing about taking care of ill friends. He had no practical purpose there.

In the end he decided that A) Nine o'clock was a very fitting time and B) Shut up!

When he arrived, twelve minutes to nine, he was surprised to find John dressed, sitting in a chair outside his ward. He looked better. It was normal for the body temperature to be lower in the morning, but it was more than that. He seemed aware, his eyes present though still tired, his skin almost back to normal colour. But despite the overall tiredness and lack of energy emitting from the doctor, there was also tension and determination.

The moment John noticed him, he perked up; "Sherlock, thank God."

"If you are happy to see me, your gratefulness would be better placed in the taxi company bringing me here," Sherlock answered with a smirk before dumping into the chair next to the doctor.

"You don't understand, they are sending me home-" John sounded frustrated.

"I was under the impression that that was a good thing?"

"Yes. No. Will you just listen?" John insisted, and then told Sherlock about his talk with Ryan, what he had seen last night and about the poor kid and the IV before ending with a begging; "And yes, Sherlock, I know very well that I have not been the most reliable eye witness these past 12 hours and I am still not feeling 100%, but you have to believe me or at least help me prove or disprove what I saw. I need to know!"

"John. I believe you," Sherlock answered immediately.

"Really?" John asked in disbelief.

"Of course. Your experience last night could be explained by the fever, but as you also said, your delusion is shared with at least one more person, who you just met. But you were not delirious this morning when you checked the IV. Lastly, it is quite a coincidence that you should see this just before the boy died. And you know how I feel about those."

"You love coincidences, because they rarely are just that - coincidences," John nodded and then smiled at the detective; "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Now, no time for that. I hope they have drugged you properly, John," Sherlock leaped out of his chair, "Let's go talk to Ryan."

-.-.-.-

Ryan was at first excited to be talking to the detective, until he realised what he wanted to talk about. The boy pulled his legs to his chest, holding them close in his arms. He was sweating and his skin was still pink from fever.

"Please, Ryan. I promised to keep you safe, but I need your help to do that." John tried to reason with the boy, "You know I saw something too. Whatever you tell us, we will believe you."

"Okay…" The boy reluctantly agreed, "I got admitted two days ago. A boy here, Tyler, had seen him the night before. Told me about it. I thought he was just trying to scare me… But then it came for Tyler…"

"What did the person look like?" Sherlock interfered.

"Death. In a cloak. Or a hoodie, maybe," Ryan seemed to be caught between thinking that it looked like a cloak but knowing it was more likely a hood. John remembered how he had thought the same thing in his delirium.

"What did the person do?" John noticed how Sherlock made sure to humanise the murderer, removing the mystique around the cloaked figure.

"It just stood over him… Looking down at him. I only woke up because Kevin woke up. He kinda shrieked, but then he just fell back asleep and the figure left. I fell asleep too… They had given me so much medicine…" Ryan looked almost ashamed.

"And you told the nurses?" John asked, deciding to skip what had obviously been a repetition of what happened this morning.

"Yes, but they said it was due to the fever and because we were a bunch of kids getting each other worked up. My parents didn't believe me either. After that, I didn't want to sleep, but the medicine makes me so sleepy…"

"It's alright, Ryan, you have done really well."

"I want to go home, but they want to keep me for one more night, 'cause my fever was high again last night. Please help me…" Tears started forming in his eyes.

"We will, don't worry," John reassured.

"One last question," Sherlock added, "Have you heard of any kids from other wards, who have seen the person? Or any adults besides John?"

"Tyler said one of the girls saw it too… That's all I know."

"Thank you, Ryan. You have been very helpful."

John told the boy to get some rest and then they left him, hopefully reassured that everything was going to be alright. Now John just hoped that Sherlock could convince him of the same.

"Now what?" John asked.

"Now, you rest."

"Alr-Wait. What?" John asked surprised, "Shouldn't we go look at the boy from this morning?"

"You need to rest. The body from this morning will do us little good and whatever evidence might have been on the IV is in the bin by now, contaminated by who-knows-what. I will, however, look into the death of Tyler and any deaths in the girls ward and crosscheck with employees at work during those times."

"Sherlock, you are not going to just shut me ou-" John started but was interrupted.

"Your breathing is ragged just from walking from the hall to the ward and back, your skin is becoming rosy and your eyes glazed, indicating your temperature rising. You need to rest, in order to be ready for tonight."

"Tonight? You think the murderer will already be back tonight?"

"Whoever it is must have been working the night shift yesterday. Most likely, the person will be working night all week, not changing between night and day shifts. Why someone who works here? The person attacks at night, anyone else would raise too much attention."

"You think… It's an 'Angel of Death'?" John asked, though gritting out the misleading term. There was nothing angelic about a person with a mental disease, working in health care and betraying the vow to help people.

"Yes," Sherlock worriedly studied John's face.

John nodded a couple of times; "Then let's stop it."

-.-.-.-

They set up camp in the waiting area outside the wing. The nurses were not happy with John not going home, but he happened to have the world's greatest detective and most effective people repellent with him, so they quickly left them alone.

Sherlock would leave for shorter periods of time, bringing back case related things for John to study or supplies to keep John comfortable. The roster for the nurses. A blanket. A cup of tea. Tyler's medical record. Some crisps. A cup of tea. The roster for the porters. A cup of tea.

John would sometimes sleep, when his body finally gave in, when he took his medication a bit too late because he wanted to feel useful. When he woke, he would continue going through the documents. Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, the night shifts were covered by more or less the same employees. There would often be certain employees more inclined to work night than others, so they appeared more often in the night roster.

After a sandwich and three tablets for dinner, John had drifted off again. When he was gently awoken by Sherlock, night had fallen. With just a nod, they had communicated all they needed, and wordlessly left camp to go back to the flu wing.

They carefully snuck around without the nurses seeing. It was luckily quite easy, since everyone was sleeping, the manning being minimal during the night and most employees sat in the office, monitoring the screens of patient vitals.

Sherlock would glance nervously at John, and John would pretend not to notice and keep going. Though he had taken his mediation, keeping his temperature down, he was still ill, and the flu was clouding his mind and weakening his body.

After midnight, John had to give in and sit down. Sherlock immediately took off for some water. John rested his head in his hands, contemplating the change is Sherlock's behaviour. It was nice to see and feel him caring. And it was seriously disturbing. It was funny how it was more comfortable to have his friend being an ass than acting like an actual friend.

John noticed movement to his left and looked up, hoping that Sherlock might have changed his mind and brought him some tea instead of water. His throat was killing him.

But it wasn't Sherlock.

It was a nurse. In nurse clothing. Young. Pretty. Black hoodie under her arm.

John stared for a moment. Then his brain caught up, starting to process what he was seeing. Not just the hoodie, but the way the woman was looking at him. Recognition. Fear.

She turned to leave.

"Hey… Wait!" John called out and stumbled up from his chair.

She bolted out the door for the stairway. John followed, as quickly as his legs would allow. The stairs seemed to swim underneath his feet, going on for forever, but he somehow managed to make it down to the basement level in one piece.

His normal instincts were slowed, so when he rounded the corner without checking first, he barely avoided the fire extinguisher aimed for his head.

He stumbled back, hitting the wall behind him and finding it hard to push away from it again, his legs thankful for something else taking his weight.

"You didn't see me. You couldn't have. You couldn't…" The nurse was frantic.

"I didn't…" _Keep her talking. Better than fighting._ "I didn't know until I saw you now. I saw that you recognised me. And you were afraid of me. But we never met. Not unless… Plus, not any other nurses with a black hoodie."

"You don't understand…" Tears started falling.

"You're right. I don't," John couldn't hide his anger; "Why would you do that. They were just children!"

"They were in pain…"

"They were here to get better!"

"I could hear them… In my head… They were hurting… I had to help the poor children!" The extinguisher was getting lowered. She almost seemed to be talking to someone else than John, her eyes not seeing.

"You… were trying to be merciful?" John tried to understand, had to understand, at least for now, until he had the advantage.

She finally looked at him, her eyes narrow and suddenly clear; "Yes. I brought them peace. They were hurting. Burning. Whining. Like you."

… _. Not good…_

"You can barely breath. You're in pain," She stepped closer.

"Doesn't mean I want to die. I just want medicine to get better," John held a hand out, as if it was strong enough to hold her back in his current condition.

"I can make it better," She dug into her hoodie.

"I just told you, I don't want to die!"

"I can help you," She held a syringe in one hand and the extinguisher in the other, seeming to contemplate her options. Moving closer.

"He doesn't need your help. But you need ours."

John turned his head, and when he saw Sherlock standing in the hall, he felt like he could finally breath.

The nurse looked back and forth between them.

"Put the needle down. Let us help you." Despite his compassionate words, his voice was cold.

"You don't understand…" She whined.

"You knew someone. Someone in pain. Someone who wanted to die. Someone who looked peaceful once they did," Sherlock took small, tentative steps forward, "For some, death might bring peace, if they are severely ill. But it is not a decision for us to make. And these are children with the flu. A week or two, and they will be fine."

"No! I can hear them! I CAN HEAR THEM HURTING!" The nurse dropped the fire extinguisher and drew back the syringe to attack Sherlock.

In a rush of adrenaline, John jumped forward and grabbed her arm, twisting her wrist to make the syringe drop from her hand.

The nurse screamed out in pain, and Sherlock stepped forward. From somewhere in his coat, he pulled out a set of handcuffs, grabbing first the hand that John was not holding and then taking the hand from John, locking the nurse's hand behind her back. She dropped to her knees, sobbing.

John stepped back, once again seeking the support of the wall.

"John! Are you alright?" Sherlock stepped up to the doctor.

John wanted to answer, but everything was heavy and non-responsive. He heard Sherlock calling for him again, but the world slipped away from him.

-.-.-.-

When John woke, he was once again lying in a hospital bed. But he felt particularly better than the first time he woke up. The sun was shining, so it must be morning again.

"About time."

John turned to look at Sherlock and couldn't help but to smile at the man; "What are you doing here?"

"Slowly losing my mind to boredom," Sherlock smiled back, maybe a little relieved.

John wondered for a moment before remembering the nurse; "What happened?"

"You fainted. Our little adventure was too much for your body in its current state," Sherlock relayed.

"And the nurse?"

"Nurse Backer was taken into custody by Lestrade-"

"You called him?"

"Of course, the case was solved," Sherlock shrugged before continuing, "She had unauthorised morphine and diazepam in her hoodie. An effective cocktail for her 'mission'. She confessed when presented with the evidence. Luckily, there were no other victims than the three we know of."

"Poor kids," John sighed. Then another thought hit him, "How did you find us in the basement?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands, "A stroke of luck, I have to admit. When I came back and you were gone, I checked the bathroom, and then I was about to go through the main exit of the wing, when I just happened to pass by the door to the staircase when you yelled "They were here to get better". I would not have heard it, if I had not been just by the door…"

"You would have figured it out," John comforted when Sherlock trailed off.

"Maybe. But not as fast," Sherlock finally looked up at him again, his eyes cold, "Don't ever to that again."

John was a bit taken back by both the statement and the look he was given. He was about to get angry. Sherlock did this to him all the damn time, and now he was chastening John for doing it? But instead he settled for; "I'll stop when you stop."

Sherlock looked puzzled.

"You take off all the time. You leave me behind, worrying about you, hoping you are alright and not in some kind of situation where I could be helping you," John explained, "So if you stop, I'll stop."

Sherlock seemed to contemplate John's words and for a moment, John thought he had finally gotten through to the man, when; "But I'm not ill!"

"Oh, for the love of- That's not the point!"

The bickering went on, until they were interrupted by Lestrade, coming in to see how John was doing and taking his statement. Soon after, John was sent home to battle the remainder of his flu. It took a couple of days before the fever was completely gone and he was back on his feet. Sherlock never said anything, but during John's recovery, he would drop food, liquids and books off in John's room.

And when John was recovered, Sherlock immediately dragged him out on a case.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the BTVS episode "Killed by Death", and by the terrible real-life stories about so-called Angels of Deaths in hospitals. However, nothing here is based on actual medical knowledge, just loosely on what I've heard from a real-life case and a bit of dramatic effect.


End file.
